The Thing I'm Most Afraid Of

by Kristin Levine

  “What do you say, Becca?” Ms. Madden asked.

  “I’d love to come.” I remembered all the people I’d seen waiting at the police station.

  “Becca,” Dad said gently. “There are going to be lots of people there. I know you don’t like—”

  “I want to go,” I insisted. I had to go. It was on my list.

  “Fine,” Dad said. “We can talk about it later.”

  Our exchange hung awkwardly in the air like a bad smell. Sara and the accordion player launched into another song.

  “Who is this fabulous violin player?” Ms. Madden asked.

  I was grateful to her for changing the subject. “It’s Sara, our au pair.”

  “Ah, the famous au pair.” Ms. Madden said. “Well, she is very good.”

  Dad and Katarina excused themselves to go mingle with the other guests, but Ms. Madden and I sat and listened. “Did you make it to Sarajevo?” I asked.

  “Yes, I just returned. I’ll go back in a day or two, but I’ll return to Vienna in time for the protest.”

  “How are things there?”

  “Bad. The Serbs’ policy of ‘ethnic cleansing’ involves shelling towns until most of the population flees. Then they send in small squads to clear out whoever remains.”

  “Sara’s mom and brother are missing,” I confessed. “They had to stay behind when she left. Do you think you could find them?”

  “Becca,” Ms. Madden said kindly. “Sarajevo is a city of half a million people. I have a TV camera, not a magic wand.”

  “Can I give you their names? You could keep an eye out. Just in case.”

  “Sure,” she said. She passed me a paper coaster with the Heuriger’s name on it and handed me a pen. I still had Sara’s flyer in my Doomsday Journal, so I remembered how to spell their names. I carefully printed Petra Tahirović, age 44, and Eldin Tahirović, age 6, and handed the coaster back to her.

  Ms. Madden stuck it in the pocket of her blazer. “I’ll see what I can do.” She glanced at her watch. “I’m afraid I have to go. But it was lovely to see you again.”

  Felix was in the middle of opening presents when I rejoined the other kids.

  Frau Gamperl gave Felix a tomato plant (“Never too early to start gardening!”), Dad and I gave Felix a book of Lincoln’s speeches, Katarina got him a bunch of sweaters, and one of the boys gave him a board game. He got a card with money from his father, a couple of more books, and then Mai handed him another card.

  “Happy birthday, Felix,” she said. “You mentioned once in history class that you liked old movies, so . . .”

  Felix ripped the card open. “Frau Kovács Tanzschule?” He sounded uncertain. “You gave me dance lessons?”

  “No!” Mai gasped. “Mom, I told you to get him a gift certificate to the English-language movie theater. Not a dance class!”

  Her mom looked confused. “But . . . but . . . you and Daisy signed up for the teen ballroom dancing class. I thought it would be fun.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Mai wailed.

  “I did! In the car. You were listening to your Walkman.”

  Mai burst into tears and ran out of the room.

  An awkward silence fell over the table. “I’m so sorry,” Mai’s mother said. “I guess we got our wires crossed.”

  “It was a lovely idea,” Katarina agreed.

  “Wait,” I said. “Frau Kovács—is that a Hungarian name?”

  “Yeah,” Daisy said. “The dance studio is right next to this café that serves the best gelato.”

  “Hey!” Sara said. “That’s where my friend works. I’m the teaching assistant for that class.”

  “Oh yeah!” Felix remembered. “The guy from McDonald’s.”

  “You went to McDonald’s?” Katarina scolded. “Felix, they do not use happy eggs.”

  “Can I sign up?” I asked. I liked classes. I was good at classes. There were rules and instructions to follow. Policies to keep everyone safe. And the chicken dance had been pretty fun.

  Rasheed’s mother jumped in next. “I’ve been trying to get Rasheed to take a dance class for years. This would be the perfect opportunity.”

  Rasheed sighed. “I’ll do it if Peter signs up too.”

  “I’ll do it if Felix does it.”

  Everyone turned to look at the birthday boy. Felix’s face took on a greenish hue. “Okay, I guess.”

  “Wonderful!” Katarina looked delighted.

  I grabbed Felix’s arm. “Let’s go find Mai.”

  “How could you let this happen?!” Felix snapped at me as we searched through the rooms of the Heuriger.

  “Mai was so embarrassed. We had to do something!”

  “My father is the one who likes to dance, not me!”

  “Maybe you will like it. And you can add it to your list.”

  Felix glared.

  We found Mai sitting on a bench in front of the Heuriger. “I’m so sorry!” she cried when she saw Felix. “I wanted to give you something . . . different. I thought maybe we could go to the movies together and . . . this is so embarrassing!”

  “Aww, it’s not that bad,” I said, sitting down next to her. Felix hovered nearby. “We actually all decided to sign up.”

  “What?” Mai wiped her eyes with a napkin.

  “Tell her, Felix.”

  He swallowed hard. “Yeah. Peter and Rasheed and Becca and I are gonna sign up too. Might be fun?”

  “Felix,” she said with a little smile. “You’re even nicer than I thought.”

  We went back to the others, but it was time to go.

  “Great party!” Daisy said as her family was leaving.

  “Thanks for the invite,” said Rasheed.

  Peter clapped Felix on the back and cried, “I’ll see you in dance class!”

  Mai just waved and blushed.

  Katarina fluttered around, packing up all the gifts. “Mai’s mother gave me all the details. The class meets Fridays at two p.m. We’ll sign you both up. I’m so proud of you, Felix! And you can ride your bikes there.”

  Wait. What?

  “Bikes?” I asked.

  “It’s a short ride,” said Katarina. “Lovely. Through the park, with only a short section on the street. And no worries, Becca. We have an extra bike for you.”

  “I’d rather take the bus,” I said.

  “Oh, no, no, no,” said Katarina. “There’s no direct route. You’d have to change three times. It would take forever. Bikes are the way to go.”

  “Oh dear,” Dad said sadly. “Becca can’t ride a bike.”

  I glanced over at Felix. He was trying so hard not to laugh. On your list, he mouthed at me.

  “Actually, Dad,” I sighed. “Maybe it’s time to give bike riding another try.”

  “The class starts Friday,” Dad pointed out. “That doesn’t give you much time.”

  “Oh, Schatzi,” Katarina said to Dad. “Sometimes you worry too much. She’ll learn!”

  “I don’t want to pay for the class and have her not be able to go,” Dad said.

  “I teach her,” Sara said. “My little brother learned, and he only six.”

  Finally, Dad nodded. “Okay. We’ll sign you both up for the class.”

  “Great!” I said, but all I could think was, Now I have five days to learn to ride a bike.

  CHAPTER 21

  Erdbeerkopf

  First thing the next morning, we had to go buy me a bike helmet; I absolutely insisted on it. Even though no one wore them in Austria. Even though we had to take a subway all the way across town to find a bike store.

  Just walking in made me nervous. The first salesman who came up to us had his arm in a sling. “What do you think happened?” I whispered to Felix.

  “He probably fell off his bike,” Felix whispered back.
<
br />   I gave Felix a shove.

  “What?” he asked. “You know I’m right.”

  “Just wait till we get to that dance class. All those girls you’ll have to dance with.”

  “Yeah,” he said with a grin, “but you have to get there first.”

  Sara did all the talking. There weren’t that many choices. The only helmet that fit me was huge and red.

  “Erdbeerkopf,” I heard the salesman say.

  Sara giggled.

  “What’s Erdbeerkopf?” I asked Felix.

  “Strawberry head.”

  I looked in the mirror. It did look like I had a humongous strawberry on my head. I laughed too. “As long as my head doesn’t get squished like one, Erdbeerkopf is okay with me!”

  When we got home that afternoon, Felix, Sara, and I went to the storage unit where everyone in the community kept their bikes. It was a small room just off the communal laundry. Felix and Sara had their own bikes; Katarina had said I could borrow hers. Felix lowered the seat until I could sit on the bike and keep my toes on the ground. He put air in the tires and oil on the chain.

  “How did you learn to do all that?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Just did.”

  It seemed pretty impressive to me.

  Felix had to show me how to walk the bike, holding one hand on the handlebars and one hand on the seat to keep it steady. Sara thought I should practice by the local school. There was a blacktop there, but when we went over to take a look, it was already filled with little kids on bikes, riding around in circles. Kids who were much younger than me.

  “No,” I said. “It would be way too embarrassing to practice here.”

  Sara bit her lip. “I have an idea.”

  She led us away from the main road, toward the vineyards, back to the path where Katarina had made me go walking on my very first morning in Austria. The uphill slope was slight, but now that I was pushing this death machine of metal and rubber, I felt every step.

  “Good spot,” Sara said finally. “Soft dirt if you fall off. No one to watch.”

  Doubtfully, I positioned the bike in the middle of the path and sat down on the seat. They were both full of advice.

  “Walk the bike first, using the brakes if you want to stop,” Felix suggested.

  “Look ahead, not at your feet,” Sara instructed.

  “Coast down a gentle slope.”

  “Walk and then pick up your feet.”

  I tried. Walking was okay, if a little awkward. But when I lifted up my feet and tried to coast, I panicked. The bike wobbled, and I overcorrected and promptly crashed into a grapevine. Unripe grapes fell onto my forehead. I felt like an idiot. And my elbow hurt. I’d probably broken it. Can you bend your arm if it’s broken?

  “Get up,” Sara said.

  “Try again,” Felix urged. “Start with the pedals in the two o’clock position.”

  “Push down with right foot.”

  “Find your balance.”

  “Use brakes.”

  “Don’t forget to steer!”

  I tried to listen—I really did! But my heart was beating so loudly, it was hard to hear them. Again, I ended up in the soft dirt.

  The next time it was harder to get back on the bike. To swing my leg over, grip the handlebars. Every time I coasted forward, I thought, When am I going to fall? And instead of balancing, I’d drag my feet to stop the bike.

  Finally, I’d had enough. Felix rode the bike home; Sara and I walked slowly back to the house. “We try again,” she said.

  “No.”

  “We try again,” she insisted. “You get it all at once.”

  I did not believe her.

  On top of everything else, I was covered in dirt. I decided to take a bath before Dad got home. The hot water felt good on my sore bones, except I didn’t like seeing the bruises springing up on my arms and legs, big purple blotches on my pale skin. Bruises were a sign of internal bleeding, which I had detailed notes on in Doomsday Journal #3, page 27. Bleeding was bad. I hated bleeding. Just the idea of blood made me feel light-headed.

  I quickly got out of the bath and put on jeans and a long-sleeve shirt so I wouldn’t have to look at my bruises. I still had half an hour before my father got home. My thoughts were spinning. Deciding to ride a bike was a terrible idea. I was going to get really badly hurt. I mean, look at the bike salesman. He’d broken his arm, and he was a professional!

  The phone rang, and I jumped. I’d never been so happy to hear my mom’s voice.

  “I’m in Venice,” she told me. “I went to the glass factory in Murano this morning and bought these beautiful red wineglasses. I’m going to a concert tonight, but I wanted to give you a quick call before I left. How are you, Becca?”

  I told her about the bike and the dance lessons, and I even explained about the list. Mom listened without interrupting.

  “I’m just going to forget about the whole thing,” I said. “The list thing was probably stupid. I mean, better safe than sorry, right?”

  Mom was quiet.

  “Mom, did you hear what I said?” I asked. “Katarina wants me to go bike riding. On the street! How dangerous is that?!”

  “I don’t know,” Mom said. “Wouldn’t it be nice to ride a bike?”

  “Yes, but . . .”

  “And your father agreed that it was safe.”

  “Dad doesn’t really think I can do it.”

  Mom tsked. “Becca, I don’t think that’s true. Of course your father believes in you!”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “I need to go now,” Mom said. “I’m having dinner with a new friend I met on the train before the concert. But, Becca?”

  “What?”

  “I have confidence in confidence alone!” Mom sang.

  I groaned. The Sound of Music was not going to help. “Bye, Mom. I love you.”

  “Bye, sweetie. Love you too.”

  Once she hung up, I went back to my room and looked at my list:

  Eat a soft-boiled egg.

  Learn to ride a bike.

  Hang out in a large crowd.

  Go on the Riesenrad.

  Travel somewhere by myself.

  The egg hadn’t been so bad. But the rest? I was afraid they were impossible.

  CHAPTER 22

  The Man from Barcelona

  Sara wanted me to try bike riding again the next morning, but I refused. My bruises were too fresh—I needed a day to recover. At least that’s what I said. The truth was I needed the rest of the year to recover. Every time I thought about getting on that bike again, I felt nauseous and jittery.

  We hung around the house in the morning. After lunch, my father called to say he would be home late, then Katarina called to say she would also be working late.

  Felix and I were watching TV on his couch when Sara said, “I have idea.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “Surprise,” she said. “Put on a dress.”

  “Dress?” Felix teased.

  “Du—eine lange Hose,” she instructed him.

  “A long hose?” I asked. “Are you going to fight a fire?”

  “It means pants,” Felix said.

  As much as we nudged her, Sara wouldn’t tell us her plan. I went back to my dad’s house to change. I’m not really a dress person, but Mom had made me pack one—a Laura Ashley blue floral-print dress with a sweetheart neck, a full skirt, and little cap sleeves. I thought it made me look like I was an extra on Little House on the Prairie, but Mom thought it was cute.

  “Okay,” I called, letting myself back into Katarina’s house. “I’m ready.”

  Sara had changed into a high-necked party dress. It was black, white, and hot pink, with rhinestones along the neckline, and a puffy tulle skirt. “Cool dre
ss!”

  Sara blushed. “I bought for senior dance in Sarajevo. I not get to go. Not practical thing to pack, but—”

  “I love it.”

  Felix came down next. He had on khaki pants and a red polo shirt. He’d even brushed his hair.

  “You look nice,” I said.

  He grunted. “So where are we going?”

  “I tell you on the way.”

  Sara ushered us out the door and onto the bus. Once we were settled in our seats, we turned to look at her. “I have a very exciting plan,” she said, pausing dramatically. “Tonight, we see . . . José Carreras!”

  Um. Yeah. Okay. I had no idea who that was. I glanced at Felix. He shrugged.

  “Who’s that?” I asked.

  “José Carreras!” Sara exclaimed, even more emphatically. “The famous tenor. From Barcelona.”

  “Never heard of him,” I said.

  Sara looked like she was going to freak out.

  “Wait,” Felix said slowly. “Is he one of those Three Tenors dudes? The guys who sang at the World Cup?”

  “Yes!” Sara grinned triumphantly.

  “Cool!” Felix exclaimed. “We’re going to a football game!”

  “Soccer?” I asked.

  “No.” Sara sighed, exasperated. “We go to opera.”

  “Opera?” I asked.

  “Yes.” Sara seemed thrilled just thinking about it. “We see the opening night of La Traviata. My favorite. José Carreras sings Alfredo.”

  Felix crossed his arms. “You tricked us. I could have just stayed home.”

  “Alone? No.”

  “I’m thirteen!” he argued.

  “Good for you to go.”

  “What’s it about?” I asked. I mean, I’d only listened to it once, but Sara seemed pretty excited about it.

  “Well,” Sara started, “La Traviata tells the story of a Parisian courtesan, Violetta. She has a party. Alfredo, handsome young man, declares love, but she says no. Must be free!”

  “Free to do what?” Felix asked.

  Sara ignored him. “A few months later, Violetta is in love with Alfredo. They move to the country. Very happy, until Alfredo’s father tells Violetta she must leave his son.”